Collaboration 1, part 1

As I mentioned in a previous post, +Mark Palise and I took a couple cracks at collaborative writing. The rules were simple - we discussed nothing about the project (not even what genre it would be) and we would take turns writing between one and two pages of material before handing it off to the other.

So, for fun, here's a glimpse into how that first effort turned out. I don't know if I'll post everything we wrote, but I'll post it incrementally for a while.

I opened the first effort with a scene I hoped would be sufficiently open-ended as to the genre of the story while quickly building a sense of mystery.

[BL]
Thump. 

Gerald looked up at the cracked plaster of his kitchen ceiling. His hearing wasn't as reliable as it used to be, but he was pretty certain that something upstairs had just made a noise. He tapped his hearing aid out of habit. 

After a full minute of silence, Gerald shrugged and returned to puzzling out fifteen down, “Part of a foot,” four letters. He hated crosswords, and yet he had not missed the Daily Herald's offering in over five decades. His granddaughter had tried to push something called a Sudoku on him, but her explanation of the process alone left his head throbbing. 

Thump. 

“Dammit,” he said, setting his pencil on the Formica table top with a snap. As he collected his cane and pulled himself to his feet, he wondered what on Earth could possibly be making that noise. He was too close to death to be worried about an intruder, but if a rodent or other critter had let itself in to the old house it could become a mess. 

Glancing up the stairs on his way to the first floor bedroom, he saw nothing but motes of dust playing in beams of the late morning sun before settling upon the collection of old family photos that lined the wall. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it might not be the ghost of his dearly departed coming back to haunt him. Elenor probably would have a few choice words to share regarding the way he'd cared for himself these last three years. Gerald shook his head in a mix of amusement and regret. 

His knees creaked alarmingly as he knelt on the floor beside his bed and reached underneath for the old wooden box. He flipped up the two tarnished latches and opened the lid, revealing his grandfather's old Smith and Wesson 38 DA pocket revolver. He knew he would feel a damn fool when the noise upstairs turned out to be nothing more than one of the oak tree's limbs banging against the siding in the wind, but the heft of the old piece gave him just a bit of reassurance should it end up being something else. The neighborhood just wasn't what it used to be. 

With the gun held loosely at his side in one hand and cane in the other, Gerald resumed his journey upstairs. The stairs squealed under his weight, announcing his approach to anyone in the entire house. He rounded the corner at the top of the steps and looked down the hall. The two bedroom doors, like usual, were closed, and the bathroom door was cracked open. He was about to open the guest room when he heard the mystery sound again, from above.
“That better be a rodent,” Gerald muttered under his breath as he began to fish out the key he wore on a thin chain around his neck, safely tucked beneath his shirt. 

At the end of the hall was the door leading to the attic, his private domain even in the years Elenor had ruled the roost. It was scarcely larger than a closet door, but it was solidly built and had a quality lock personally installed. He slid the key inside and it turned with a reassuring click. At least someone hadn't broken in that way. 

Gerald looked up the narrow staircase and was further relieved to see it dark. He flicked the light switch and grumbled when the usual yellow glow didn't instantly appear. His granddaughter, bless her heart, had bought some new-fangled compact fluorescent bulbs that he'd been forced to use to replace the attic's lone bulb when it had finally conceded its miserable murky hue to eternal darkness. The new bulb took nearly as long to reach full brightness as it took him to climb the stairs and it had a harsh whiteness to it that seemed to change the character of the attic entirely. It wasn't for the better. 

He thumped his own way up the unfinished wood steps, letting his cane proclaim each step along the way. As the top of his head crested above the attic floor, he glanced around at the room for any sign of intruder – human, animal, or otherwise – but found none. The familiar newspaper clippings covered each wall, even if they felt out of place in the new lighting. His desk and chair, and the old AM/FM radio, all in their proper place. 

Then he noticed the box.